ESTESBOG

This little wildlife drama was photographed and described to me by fellow photographer Mandy Colburn of Fort Morgan. Mandy’s 11-year-old stepson, Ouray Ocanas, is an exceptionally observant nature nut who seldom misses an interesting snake or bug or mammal in his wanderings.

            One day last summer Ouray noticed the family pack of weiner dogs were excited about something on the back lawn. Going to investigate, he spotted a gray and black object in the grass and it was moving. It was a baby bat. Assuming it had lost its mother, and knowing enough about bats to realize he probably shouldn’t handle it directly, the boy put on some heavy work gloves to capture the little bat and put him in a terrarium. He figured that the baby bat’s mother could access the baby through the open top and the little animal might be at least somewhat protected from cats and other small terrestrial predators.

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(National Park Service photograph)

by Peter Walker

There is great irony in wildlife damage to Division of Wildlife property.  But it happens.

I arrived in Colorado from Maine the end of March, 1984 on the tail end of one of the snowiest winters in modern history. The agency I joined was near the end of a major operation to feed big game through the long months of deep snows that had driven stressed and starving deer and elk into mountain valleys in their desperate search for something to eat. Read more…

by Peter Walker

 A couple of years ago my grandson, Jason, introduced me to the recent hit animated movie “Over the Hedge.” One of the funniest scenes takes place in a tract home when the invading small animals are confronted by the woman of the house, armed with a broom.

In the confusion the skunk turns to one of her compatriots and says, “I’m sorry you have to see this.” Then she yells out, “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

The view pans back away from the house as, “POOM!” a green cloud simultaneously blows out from the windows and doors.

That incident reminds me of a tale often told in the Walker family. My paternal grandfather, Elmer Walker, was a big man for his generation. At 6’ 3” he had a deep booming voice to match his stature. Read more…

TANGLED TRAILS

Peter Walker

I grew up a-dreamin’ of being a cowboy,

and lovin’ the cowboy ways.

Willy Nelson “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys”

Dreams of riding the range are not restricted to kids in the western North America. Nor are they limited to little boys. In my rural Maine grade school in the 1950s many of my daydreams were of going west when I grew up. My big loves in those days were hunting and fishing. Maine is a big timber state and, in those days, moose were still relatively scarce, and deer hunting for the most part consisted, it seemed to me, of wandering around in dense cover hoping for a chance encounter with an equally disoriented buck. I wanted to go west where the animals were abundant and the land so wide open that every hunt resulted in success.  

Pursuin’ the life of my high-ridin’ heroes,
I burned up my childhood days.

From sixth through eighth grade, Joanie Welch and I always sat in the rear of the room near the window (Walker then Welch). Joan was a down-to-earth country girl as naïve about the world as me. Joanie was a horse woman (and the best dancer by far of any girl in our school). So Joan had the same types of romantic notions about the West as I did. We shared our dreams a lot – usually when we should have been paying attention to the lesson. She wanted to go west to ride horses all day. I wanted to go there and shoot grizzly bears. The cumulative hours that we spent speculating over the relative merits of Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho were many. But then, the lessons, dummied down to the lowest common denominator by our middle-aged former one-room school teachers, could have been made a lot less boring. Read more…